Experimenting with Destruction
by Jawless Harry Bound in Chains
Summary: Another hybrid story. My first pokemon tale. Starting with the experiment, it may follow the escape of a group of Hybrids into a world where human mutation is against god and good. Horrible Summary.
1. Phase I

_11:06:25 - All previous symptoms seem to have vanished. It appears the medication has finally begun to take affect. In two hours the specimen should begin showing signs of the transformation. _

The man capped his pen, and slid it behind his ear. Before him the surveillance monitors flicker in nuances of black and white, stained by yellow numbers glowing in the bottom right hand corners indicating the number and location of each chamber that flashed across the screen. Each new room showed a new set of faces, all in the same situation. Groups of ten to twenty emaciated men, women, and children possessed each windowless cell, all huddled together or curled up in corners trying to escape the pain each new day brought. Most had not been fed in weeks, some even months.

Earlier, many of them had been curled up on the floor, fleeing shadows and tearing at their own skin. When the floor man had done his rounds, he had found most of them were feverous, delusional, even suffering from violent spasms. Those who ate, could not keep the food down, and those who didn't had taken to gnawing at their own flesh.

The medication they had been given seemed to be working, in any case, the madness had stopped. For the moment.

He shifted slightly in his seat so he could see the panel of buttons that stretched out from under the monitors. Placing his experiment log down he reached out and pressed one of the closest buttons.

"Lights out." He muttered, and watched as every screen flickered once, before momentarily becoming dark. With his thumb he flicked a switch, and the images appeared once more, now in shades of green and black. He noted absent mindedly the looks of fear that had formed across the faces of the many captives. They huddled closer to each other, struggling to get into the center. From the speakers screams, and desperate cries could be heard, children began to weep and parents grunted as they fought each other.

One of the bulbs on the distant wall sparked and took light. Through the speakers a new sound could be heard, a low hiss that seemed to crawl beneath your skin, that grew beneath the chaotic frenzy of thrashing bodies. He watched through the monitors as a strange cloud began to fill up the rooms.

It would be their third dosage within the hour.

Many of the bodies began to grow slack, he could see it in their posture. Raised fists grew limp, and very soon, bodies began to slump and collapse upon the floor.

Thousands had been ushered in only hours ago, the number had since then dwindled. If the fad continued, they should be down to a hundred now.

The light dimmed and diminished, and the cloud that had permeated every pore began to recoil and soon vanished into nothing.

He unclasped his walky-talky, took a deep breath, and squeezed the button.

"Sir." He grunted. "We have narrowed down the specimen."

Releasing the button, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Glancing once more at the monitors now riddled with dead bodies. In two more hours the captives would begin showing signs of transformations. Until then, more and more of them would have to die. He drew in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

"Phase one is complete, sir. We await your orders."


	2. Phase II

Authors note: I am only assuming that this could possible be considered an AU fanfiction, only because something happen out of sequence, and I know little about pokemon outside of the events that happened in the original series.

Disclaimer: This disclaimer will apply for all chapters. I do not own pokemon, or anything associated with it. I do, however, own my original characters and hopefully the plot. Despite how trite and cliche it may be.

* * *

_1:07:30 - Phase two has begun._

He stared at the words, realizing now how far they had come. How permanent these words were, stains of black ink that would never leave him even after the paper was long gone, crumbled and crushed, or incinerated in one of the furnaces only floors below. His mind was numbed by horror, but his hand continued.

_After exposing the remaining specimen to the third dose of 'Red Mist', phase two was quickly executed. For later reference, the phase two objective was to administer the Pokemon DNA while the atrophying effects of the 'Red Mist' continued to weaken the DNA bonds of the human specimen. Theoretically, if injected quickly enough, the Pokemon DNA should replace the missing human DNA, and the remaining would quickly be expelled._

In a few hours he knew a countless number of bodies would be collected from every room and thrown into the hungry furnace flames. Until then, over the screens he lay witness to the desperation and depravity of the remaining captives who hadn't yet succumbed to the anesthetic portion of the 'Red Mist'. The bodies, already beginning to decay, were being thrashed about and mutilated, or in the rare cases, clutched to the bosom's of their mourning kin.

To some extent, violence was the expected side effect of the drugs. The 'red mist' gas was only intended to weaken the bonds, but having previously been untested, the full extent of its capabilities was limitless. Those specimens who survived the third dose, but had yet to receive the pokemon DNA, would continue to be effected. The bonds of their DNA weakening until the chain broke apart completely and their bodies began to decay. The process was undoubtably painful, and for many, fatal.

He watched now as below a massive team of grunts rushed into every chamber, masked, and equipped with tranquilizers. The survivors hurled themselves at the grunts in fits of senseless rage, empowered only by pain induced adrenaline and simple the will to live, but the men were well equipped, and while some blocked the attacks with shields, the men behind them shot the survivors. Once all were sedated, the grunts rushed forward and collected the quickly decaying corpse, piling them into furnace bound bins riddling the halls.

After the grunts began their job, the grounds men busied themselves with lifting the specimen onto stretchers and carrying them bound, room by room, up to the floor above.

Pressing a button, the screens all flickered, and the yellow numbers changed to reflect the shift in floors. The new floor wasn't broken up like the one before it had been. Instead it was one large room filled with laboratory equipment and empty glass pods that lined the very edge of the room and spiraled inwards with enough room for three men to walk abreast between rows.

The grounds men brought in groups at a time depending on which rooms below they had inhabited, and injected them each with a separate serum. Then, with their heads lolling, and their limbs finally unbound, they were placed into the pods with oxygen masks over their faces and small tubes inserted into their arms. The pods sealed themselves shut, and from the bottom began to expel a strange liquid.

In less then half-an-hour, every remaining specimen had been sealed away in glass, and completely engrossed in the strange liquid.

In a few hours the effects of the drugs would become obvious. With the aid of the liquid catalyst, small physical changes would begin to make themselves apparent as the Pokemon DNA began to rebuild the damaged human structure.

And in mere weeks, he thought, flicking from the image of scientists and doctors rushing around the laboratory, to the furnace, all hell would break loose.

He picked up his walkie-talky, and fighting down nausea, pressed the button.

_Of the estimated three-thousand captives- _

"Sir, it is only a matter of time now before phase two is completed."

_-only ninety-eight had survived the third dosage. _

The grunts, showing little hesitation, emptied one of the bins into the flames.

His throat grew dry, as bile began to rise into his chest. A pressure began to build within his chest.

"Sir, we will proceed as planned." Releasing the buttons, he slid down lower into his chair. Dropping the walkie-talky to the ground, as on the screens the flames continued to hungrily consume what had only hours ago, been living, breathing, human beings.

* * *

Authors note II: I am sorry is this chapter is not as good as the last one, hopefully with the arrival of the actual hybrids, it may improve. 


	3. Incubation

Authors Note: I'm sorry for the big delay. Thank you foxyjosh, Nyaa-Neko, A.G.M. Mendelssohn, VampireWizard, and Mai-danishgirl. Special thank to Pink Parka Girl for giving my story a chance, and for offering some greatly appreciated advice. I do hope that I can prove how serious I am about avoiding cliches. No one be afraid to tell me when I've tread wrong.

* * *

_ - What have we done? If there is a God in heaven, how for this sin can we be redeemed? We have replicated the womb, massacred a town, and yet it is not enough. We have injected the remaining few with alien DNA, we are playing God in hopes of creating an unstoppable army, yet it is _**not enough! **_It will never be enough. In the name of 'project dawn' we have gathered more captives, our numbers now amassing to nearly two-hundred including those already suspended in their glass chambers. One-hundred-and-five of these new specimen consists of grunts and their families, . . . _

The man's hand began to shake violently as he tried his best to contain the emotions boiling up within his stomach.

_...their wives, sons and daughters . . . _

For months in secret they had been starved and prepared to receive the three bouts of the 'Red Mist'. In secret, beneath the watchful eyes of the leader, and the leader alone. For no one besides him had been aware of this addition that had begun only a month after the original phase's one and two. No one, not even the family and friends of those who had suddenly vanished from their lives.

_..the other two . . . _

He couldn't continue. He slammed down the pen, and pinned it beneath his sweating palm. His body was cold, and yet hot at the same time while his head spun in a frenzy of fiery thoughts and his heart raced with sickening dread and painful tangs of remorse. Slowly, his hands found their way to his temples, applying pressure in attempts to still the memories that began slowly to leak forth once more through the membrane of his mind.

"_Sir, the boss wishes to see you." _

His eyes closed, shutting out the laboratory, shutting out the bodies now all curled into fetal position. The bodies that hovered unaware of the humanity they were losing, the humanity that was slowly being ripped away from them moment by moment. They were all so unaware . . . the images of their faces, the faces of the children, hidden apathetically behind oxygen masks as they floated, suspended in some rehabilitating form of slumber . . . just upon the brink of change.

'_The Boss' as they called him stood within the shadows, but even in the darkness where his eyes could not be seen the man could feel the intensity of his gaze upon him. _

"_You may notice a change in numbers, Oak. I've added a few more specimen, one-hundred-and-seven to be precise."_

"_One-hundred-and-seven?"_

Their placid faces . . . burning into the back of his skull . . . for two years he would have to witness their changes . . . for two years he would wonder what thoughts caused their eyes to flicker behind their closed eyelids. What thoughts . . . he imagined for a moment that they were not as unaware as he imagined.

"_I expect some may not survive, so the extra are to insure that we get the pokemon we need. We need one specimen to represent each pokemon who's DNA we have, I assumed you above all would realize why." _

His heart dropped as the feeling of nausea shuddered through his system. Regret tore and tangled his organs as something sharp and barbed grew slowly within his throat.

"_One-hundred-and-five of them are grunts and their families . . . that is how strongly they feel for this project, Oak."_

"_And the two others?" _

"_Think of the project, think of what we are trying to obtain." _

"_Who are they!" _

"_My son, Damien." _

"_And . . . ?" _

Opening his eyes, he forced himself to stare down into the face of his own son.

"_But what about his child? His new born son! What about Gary!"_

The boss had not laughed, had not smiled, but the boss did not feel what he felt, couldn't.

"_I have given up my son. It is only right for you to do the same."_

The man known as Oak succumbed finally to his body's wish, and with his sons placid face floating on the screen, passed out.

Half of the specimen had died by the time eighteen months had passed. Some from viruses that would appear overnight, others from unexplainable mutations and even more from a power failure that had succeeded in taking out an entire section of tanks. New vaccines had been injected within the remaining specimen after studies had been done on the bodies of the deceased, and the vigilance of the scientists and doctors had been doubled in order to reduce the risk of error.

Despite the progress and the growing certainty of success, the man known as Oak was growing more skeptical with every passing day and with every body burnt.

He no longer knew if he believed in God or not. No longer knew if what he was doing was right. The science, the sense of discovery had vanished and left him with nothing but regret, and the only thing that remained was the chain of commitment that now bound him to watching his monsters grow. On every screen he could see the pale emaciated bodies floating ignorantly bound by sleep, unaware of their bones poking out from beneath what was becoming fur and feathers and scales, unaware of the wings and blades and spikes and tails that were sprouting from their arms and back, unaware of the humanity now slipping farther through their fingers, faster. What made it worse were the children, barely having reached the ages of four or five or even six, already looking more like pokemon than the humans they had once been.

Because of this, because of the life he knew he had brought them into, he could not help but be thankful for every death he added to the already large number. He wanted them all to die, to rid themselves of pain, to rid him of guilt. He no longer believed in his own project, with his sons introduction to the equation he had forgotten his purpose in starting the research.

Yet he would remain until all the hybrids were fully functional. He would continue to take notes, continue to be an asset to this procedure, but once it was over he would leave. He would free his son.

The next six months passed slowly, but with less trouble then the previous months, and the night of the estimated deadline was soon upon them.

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Authors note II: I am sorry if this chapter is not as good, and forgive me for using Team Rocket. The whole reason I used them, is based on a nonsense rumor a friend of mine once told me. I wished to further play around with the possibility of it occurring, therefore making it difficult to change the group. Balderdash, you may say, but forgive me nonetheless, please? The next chapter, obviously will involve hybrids. 

The reason I made it two years is because I assumed it would be more difficult to change the bodies structure once its become stable. Since it takes nine months to create the body, it would take longer to enhance, modify, and empower the bodies. You all know who the mystery man is now, right?


	4. Conviction

Authors Note I: I'm sorry for the massive delay, I've had two computers crash and delete everything I've written, not to mention a bunch of work that usually accompanies school and the start of college.

* * *

_  
"Somewhere there is . . . somewhere. There is being . . . somewhere, there is light." _Dizzying darkness, he was shrouded in darkness. He was lost in the shadows, engulfed in such empty space with only the sound of his heartbeat, his heartbeat and the whispers. His heartbeat and the screams that echoed meaninglessly through his atmosphere, the wicked sounds that spun and swam in his nothingness, clashing and clanging in such a cacophonous rage that he could feel himself drowning farther and farther in the ruins of his existence.

He belonged to nothingness, nothingness was the thrumming numb that ran through all he knew, and what he knew was nothing. He was boundless and always in chains and restraints. He was without being, but aware to the existence of fingers on hands and toes on feet. He was aware of a cold placidity broken by the gentle softness that passed over his lips and entered and exited his being.

_Breathe . . . air. _Such words had meaning to him, but had no shape. He had definitions, but no understanding. Such substance kept him alive, but he did not know as of how, he could not remember, such knowledge had been locked away somewhere in the darkness. He knew other words as well, he knew pain.

The unbearable sensation that had driven him to darkness, the burning that had flung itself like lightning through his very atoms, had ripped apart his mind from the inside, and sent blood dribbling from the orifice now drinking heavily from the oxygen mask. The explosive force that had threatened to tear apart his body as it filled the room with light and shattered the glowing glass he could recall surrounding him.

Such memories came in bursts, creeping in from the shadows . . . coming with images of small devices being buried and implanted in the limbs he had for so long been forced to neglect.

So long ago he could remember the sight of many entering his darkened lonely chambers to watch as he formed, to watch as he evolved. The lights flashed on and filtered in through the liquid, bathing him in shame as his face read fear.

It was the first time he could hear sounds, but there was silence to his ears. Sounds were filtering in, thoughts were flashing and forming and passing before his very eyes as man after man walked in through the door, more and more clutter built up in his mind. He had no control as panic spread through his veins, building up his heartbeat; he sucked in more and more air.

The noises grew more intense, filling up his sight, filling up his being they danced faster and faster and faster and as they did he could feel something growing and building within him. Something strange, something dangerous smoldering and brewing, churning within his stomach, within his breath, like energy pulsing through him, almost like _igniting. _

All the while the voices and sounds became screams and the lights began to flicker.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he could taste blood in his mouth . . . and everything became dark.

Since then there had only been darkness, and the screams to keep him company, quieter now.

But he could feel something shifting; something was about to change.

From above something clicked, and something crashed, and from all around him he could feel the cold and numbing serenity spiraling down into emptiness.

His being became heavy, and he suddenly felt himself falling.

* * *

12:08:45 - _They are alive. _

Grunts flooded the floor with stretchers and gurneys as the pods were drained of their inner liquid, apathetically collecting the bodies once the outer glass shells split open, and dumped the bodies limp and helpless upon the ground.

-_There are survivors, though their muscles have atrophied, they are not beyond a point workable by rehabilitation. An estimated seventy specimen remain._

From his office Oak watched the Grunts wheel the surviving hybrids into the lifts, and rose from his chair, tucking an object he had dug up from the depths of one of his drawers into the pocket of his lab jacket before leaving the room.

The holding area for the hybrids consisted of a large hallway lined on either side with spacious three walled cells, the fourth wall being a row of metal bars that allowed the person walking down the center of the hallway a clear view of the creature that lay beyond.

The grunts had long since finished situating the creatures in their rightful places, leaving them water, small plates of food, and even a tag hung on the bars bearing the name and type of pokemon they had become.

Though he was terrified of what he was there to do, Oak scanned the tags, trying his best to avoid looking at the bestial humanoid that lay curled up behind the bars as he fingered the object weighing heavy in his pocket.

'Bulbasaur, ratatta, cubone, . . . ' he read, his heart beating louder in his ears as the silence around him began to grow deafening. 'growlithe, niddoran, pidgey . . . '

A shrill breath drew his attention from the card into the cage, and he felt his breath hitch.

Where there had once been a nose and mouth was now a beak, sharp and hooked, gaping open as the creature laying still upon the floor wheezed and whistled in deep and painful breaths. With every inhalation the bones already standing like testament of starvation would rise and become more prominent beneath the few feathers that remained on the puckered and pocked brown flesh of its abdomen. These ribs were thrust forward off the floor by the blades of the creatures shoulders which had been pushed back and closer together at some point during the incubation period to allow for the arms to become wings.

Wings, the professor realized, that would never gain flight.

The talons of the creature scratched against the floor as it, no, _he _the light corrected, struggled to gain access to the bars. But his arms did not move, the wings dragged uselessly at his side, shedding feathers with every jerk his emaciated and twisted body risked making.

His shoulders had been dislocated, and he was dying.

His skin grew pale and sallow, and his movement stopped and stilled in one final concentrated inhalation that caused his ribs to swell, and finally, with a jerk, to drop.

From the open beak a mixture of blood, bile, and spit formed a puddle within the feathers upon the floor, and his eyes, the only human part remaining, set upon the eyelids like a crest, locked still in a stare upon the Professor.

The professor felt sick.

But he had regained his conviction.

As difficult as it was, he tore his eyes away and turned shakily to the next card. It only took a few more tries before he found the card he was looking for.

Dread grew heavy in the pit of his stomach, and from it sprouted something sharp and solid that lodged itself within his throat. He could not speak, he could not swallow, and for a second he could not breath. His peripheral vision became dark, and all he could see was the small white card.

'Taurus'. From his watch room, through the monitor, he paid the most attention to this creature. If this situation had been any different, a different time, a different place, a different purpose, he may have laughed.

His son _had_ always been bullheaded.

But he wasn't laughing. Even though the observable reality seemed so farfetched, and the gun in his hand seemed so alien to his palm.

He swung the barrel into the darkness of the cage without taking his eyes off the card, and pulled the trigger.

The bang seemed louder than any other imaginable sound, and it resonated through his being like an earth quake aftershock, shaking his bones until they gave out beneath him, and sending tears of pain to his eyes as his knees struck the floor.

But the pain was not from the contact. The gun, still clutched in his hand, clattered once on the ground.

The weak yet frightened sounds of terror around him went unheard above the ringing of his ears and the pounding of his heart.

It didn't take seeing the marks of dampness on the ground for him to realize he was weeping.

Yet it took the twitching of a familiar tail across these marks for him to realize he had missed.

Sickness shot through him like a storm, steadying him instantly and causing his head to shoot up with wide eyes toward the darkness.

"No . . . " Horror clamped at his heart, at his throat like two chilling hands. "No . . . !"

Staring back at him were his own eyes, mirroring his fear, his vexation, his pain.

His knees shook and convulsed but he stood himself up right with the gun clenched before him with both hands to steady his aim.

His eyes were human, but his body had abandoned him. His face had grown elongated, his smooth forehead had sprouted three metal studs, and his temples had sprouted horns.

Hands that had once caught pokemon at the age of ten, and held a son at the age of thirty, were now hooves similar to the brittle gray matter that had replaced the feet he could still remember removing splinters from when they were small. Splinters would never be an issue now.

His son, no the creature, stared up at him, stared up into the barrel of the gun, with his three tails twitching beside his legs which were coated in a brown fur thicker than the soft tan of the rest of his corpulent body.

The professor tried with his fingers twitching and sweat beading down his brow to pull the trigger, but something wouldn't let him.

He could still see his son staring out at him from the body of the damned beast.

From somewhere down the hall he heard the sound of footsteps.

Shaking, he swore, and bit down the bile that had risen in his throat, and without second though turned away from the door and the creature that was once his son . . . and ran back into the depths of the compound.

As soon as he was sure he could, he summoned his dragonite and blew through the walls into the night sky.

* * *

"Master Giovanni, sir. The Professor Oak seems to have deserted us, should we pursue him, sir?" The heels of his boots clicked together while his hand gestured a salute to the only man clothed in red.

Said man smiled, but did not turn his eyes away from the body set up on a stretcher before him.

"No, that won't be necessary." He reached out toward the body, running his hand gently over the metal helmet until he reached the end where a stray strand of white hair still protruded, he caught this strand between his fingers and began to twist it. "We have all his research, he has played his part, and trust me . . . "

His smile grew wider, and his eyes which, seconds before held something similar to compassion, became cold and sinister.

"He won't tell a soul what he has done. . . . " he said with a laugh, leaning into the body as though to whisper into the small slits in the helmet where the child's ears would be. "Our dreams have become his nightmare . . . "

He tugged lightly on the strand of hair, and allowed his eyes to soften and grow distant, as though the grunt was no longer in the room, and they filled with pride. "Damien, you have become his nightmare."

Standing over his sons still form, Giovanni laughed.

* * *

Authors Note II: I'm sorry if this chapter wasn't very good. Constructive Criticism is greatly appreciated.


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